


Premonition

by alasondria



Category: Phantasy Star Online 2
Genre: F/M, Luthaly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasondria/pseuds/alasondria
Summary: Luther recalls a time better left forgotten.





	Premonition

**Author's Note:**

> being a mad scientist sucked

He peers at her over his desk from time to time, feeling something vague tug ever-insistently at him. An old, nostalgic sensation pulling at the corners of his mind.

 

It isn't until one dreadfully stormy night that he makes the connection. And it is not made of his volition.

  
  
  


Alasondria's gaze is fixed on the bristling trees outside the castle walls, their branches trembling fiercely in the gusts brought on by the storm. A torrent of rain pelts the stone walls. She remains silent as she contemplates to herself, her thoughts wandering to the magic theory she’d previously been stuck on.

 

Luther enters the room, but his footsteps are muted against the carpeting; he is deliberately quiet as he walks so as not to disturb his aide's musing, knowing full well she mulls over their studies.

 

However, that elusive nostalgic feeling skirts over him, raises the hair on his neck as he beholds his aide in a light all too familiar yet still so unknown.

 

A howling voice echoes in his head.

 

_ “How could this be the result?! You've ruined another experiment!” _

 

An ice-cold dread seeps into his skin. 

 

That desperate, howling voice--it had been his. 

 

Luther frantically looks to Alasondria, his eyes wide and searching. Sharp pain lances through his skull and he doubles over with a grunt. His aide whips around with a gasp and she wastes no time hurrying over to his side. 

 

"Luther! Are you alright?"

 

It had been her words both in the moment and back then and all too aware was he that he had heard them like this before. She had placed her hands atop one of his, the hand clawing at his aching head, and he had whipped it away and snarled. 

 

"Don't touch me!"

 

Reality became the echo.

 

"L-Luther...?" Alasondria retracts her hands swiftly, holding them close to her chest. 

 

He struggles to trace his gaze up to her face but when he at last manages he is stricken by the fearful expression of his aide. The stifling anxiety it pools in his gut forces him to lurch forward. 

 

Alasondria inhales and surges up to steady the prince.

 

"Alasondria," he mutters, his voice a weary croak. His head still thrums angrily and the nauseous churn of his stomach does not cease. "Forgive my outburst. I think... I am not myself presently."

 

His aide is quiet for a moment and the agony of it twists Luther's insides up ever more. When at last she speaks again her voice is soft and, Luther notes, tearful.

 

"I know."

 

Luther leans on her heavily, the pain lancing through his head suddenly redoubling. A white haze clouds his vision and he cannot focus ahead.

 

A voice shouts in his mind once more, pleading. Then another voice, loud and commanding.

 

_ “I can re-do it! The next experiment will be better, I assure you!” _

 

_ “Your assurances have meant nothing! Every experiment you undertake is a failure! A waste of time and resources, just like the scientist who utilizes them.” _

 

Luther snaps up abruptly. "She is not...!"

 

Alasondria's arms encircle the prince's waist, trying to hold him down. "You mustn't over-exert yourself!"

 

For but a moment clarity rings through like a bell and it was Alasondria he saw; his aide, the right hand of the prince of Cuent, trimmed in blue and gold and smiling easily at him. 

 

The echo of his ghost, the shattered man from an ancient era, is shrugged off his shoulders. A forgotten remnant crumbles away, though a ruin's worth still remained. He must excavate it all in time.

 

He does not hear his own voice, callous and cruel, call out anymore.

 

"Alasondria," Luther breathes, weary and worn.

 

"How are you feeling?" She asks, concern evident in her tone.

 

"Tired," he says with a dry laugh. 

 

Alasondria's grip on him tightens. "Let me get you into bed."

 

Despite his disposition, a playful comment dances on the prince's tongue; a brief, comforting reminder that this life is not the one of old. Still, he holds his peace. Instead, he moves along with his aide when she hoists him up with surprising ease and walks back with her to his room. 


End file.
